


The Sweater

by FangirlsHandbag



Category: Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries
Genre: Divorce, F/M, Forgiveness, Healing, Love/Hate, Moving On
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-05
Updated: 2018-04-05
Packaged: 2019-04-05 14:58:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,918
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14046762
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FangirlsHandbag/pseuds/FangirlsHandbag
Summary: Rosie Robinson, née Sanderson, anxiously waits for her husband to come home from the war. She needs something to occupy her time. Knitting a sweater seems like the perfect solution to keep her her hands busy and to show Jack how much she missed him.Unfortunately for Rosie, knitting a sweater is about as easy as building a life.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I think everyone knows how much I *hate* Jack's green jumper from 'Murder Under the Mistletoe'. It's too short. It's too tight. IT’S EXORCIST GREEN! In a word, it’s hideous. Putting a man as attractive as Nathan Page in something so unbecoming is a sin against nature and a crime against humanity. As a knitter, I find it offensive.
> 
> But that got me to thinking. What if there was a reason for the sweater's ugliness? And then it struck me. Rosie knit Jack that sweater. From that flash of insight this story was born.

\- ROSAMUND KATHERINE ROBINSON! We are going to be late!

Rosie looked over at her older sister Millicent’s disapproving glare and rolled her eyes. Her sibling simply didn’t remember what it was like to be a newlywed. Admittedly, Rosie and her Jack were four years out from being true newlyweds, but her husband had been deployed to the front months after they took their vows. The rosy glow of their first days as man and wife hadn’t had time to wear off. Finally her love was coming home! Home after years of war and worry. Rosie wanted everything to be perfect for his arrival.

\- Just a few minutes Millie. I’m trying to pick out just the right wool.

\- I don’t understand what all the fuss is about. It’s just a sweater.

\- But it must be perfect. I want Jack to have something warm to wear when he gets home. Winter is only a few months away. Besides, I want him to know how much I missed him. Now, his eyes. Are they all blue, or did they have some green in them? I can’t believe I don’t remember.

\- I honestly can’t say I ever noticed Jack Robinson’s eyes, Rosamund. Mother is waiting. We told her we would be ‘round for tea a half an hour ago.

\- There’s some green. I’m certain of it. Alright Millie, just let me have these wrapped and sent to the house then we can be off to mother’s

\- FINALLY!

 

_____________________________________________________________________________________

 

Wrong! Wrong! WRONG!

Rosie could hardly contain her sobs as she pulled apart the sweater. Everything, from the colour to the fit was completely wrong. How could this have happened?

\- Rosie, love, it’s alright. It’s just a sweater….

Jack was being wonderful, but he didn’t understand. It wasn’t just a sweater. Every stitch was supposed to show him how much she missed him. But nothing had gone right. She knew it from the moment they had embraced on the pier. His eyes did not have flecks of green in them. How could she not have known this? She was his wife!

The first few days of Jack’s homecoming had been a whirlwind, with visits first to her parents, then his. This was the first evening they had to themselves so, after a meal of all his favourites, Rosie had presented him with the carefully wrapped package that had sat in her hope chest for almost a year.

\- What’s this?

\- I made it. I wanted you to have something special when you came home.

With a wicked grin that was uniquely his, Jack had opened the package and enthusiastically pulled the jumper over his head.

But it was too big. Looking at him in the loose-fitting jumper, it hit Rosie exactly how much Jack had suffered in the war. She had gotten his measurements from his mother to make sure it was exactly right, consulted with her as to style and sizing, yet here it was, hanging off her beloved as though he were a boy wearing a man’s clothing. This would not do.

\- It’s a little big, but your cooking will fix that.

Her lip trembled. He was trying to console her. Rosie looked at her husband, trying hard to contain her tears. That was when Jack scratched the back of his neck. She looked at her him in horror.

\- It itches?

The tears were coming in earnest now. There was no stopping them.

\- Just a little Rosie. It’ll soften up. It reminds me a bit of my uniform! It’s practically the same colour and….

Rosie wailed.

She ordered Jack to take off ‘that horrendous thing’ then hid herself away in the parlour.

Here she sat, an hour later, unraveling a sweater that had taken her months to knit. All she wanted was to celebrate her husband’s homecoming, just the two of them. How could she have failed so miserably? Why was she such an awful wife?

\- Rosie?

Rosie dropped the tangled mass of wool into her lap trying to keep from crying.

\- Rosie sweetheart, it’s fine. I love it.

Strong arms wrapped around her from behind and she leaned into the comfort Jack offered. He was warm. He was solid. He was home.

\- I’m sorry. I didn’t think. I just wanted to make you happy….

She ran her hands over Jack’s strong arms.

\- You do. It does.

His lips at her neck.

\- Come to bed love….

His hand at her breast.

\- Come…

She went.

A few hours later Rosie lay in bed listening to Jack’s soft snores, trying to make sense of it all. Their love making had always been a gentle, loving exploration. Admittedly, both she and Jack had limited experience. Rosie blushed to think of the one time behind her father’s gardening shed when things had gotten a little heated a week before their wedding, but there had always been a sense that even in the throws of passion there was a meeting of spirit as well as body.

Not this time.

It was confusing. It was as though she were reaching for something that wasn’t there, while Jack was… Well, she wasn’t sure. It was almost as if Jack were trying to lose himself in their lovemaking. While physically the act had ultimately been satisfying, her spirit was sadly lacking completion.

Rosie kicked off the covers. She was being ridiculous! Her husband was home! He had survived trench warfare, frigid winters, a lack of food, not to mention the Spanish Influenza for heaven’s sake. She was lucky to have him back. Other women were not so blessed. She had no business grousing about this! They would get through this. Jack loved her. She loved Jack. This would pass. He needed to readjust to civilian life. She needed to get used to being his wife.

She took a deep breath and calmed herself. Maybe if she finished unravelling the sweater she would feel better. She could cast on then knit the first few rows, much as she and Jack would knit their lives back together.

She sighed contentedly as she curled up into the settee and set to work.

 

_____________________________________________________________________________________

 

The sweater was coming along well. Rosie had completed the back and was now well on her way to finishing the front panel. Only a few more rows and…

The evening had started off in companionable silence, sitting together on the settee. Rosie was curled up with her knitting, Jack with his latest Zane Grey. It had been a while since her husband had been home at a reasonable hour. They had been distant lately but that was understandable. He’d been working so hard now that he’d been made Senior Detective Inspector. There was lots of work to be done, but another promotion couldn’t be far off and the sacrifice would be worth it. In the meantime, she would treasure this night together.

\- Jack? What’s wrong?

Jack’s book was lying in his lap forgotten; his wide eyes wide but empty, staring at something far, far in the distance.  His face, still thin, was even more drawn and pale than usual. Sweat dampened his brow. His hands were trembling.

Rosie touched his shoulder, gently, but he jumped off the sofa so fast that one would have thought she had jabbed him with her knitting needle.

\- It’s nothing Rosie! I’m fine.

\- You are not fine Jack. Talk to me. I want to help…

\- Leave it Rosie. You can’t….  Just, please, leave it.

She could see the pain on his face and did her best to mask her own.

\- I’m… I’m sorry Rosie. I… I have some reports to write. I had better get to them.

Rosie nodded. She would not cry. His rejection hurt, but her husband would not see her cry. It wouldn’t help anyway, so she returned to her knitting. The clicking of her needles became her mantra: We will get through this. We will get through this. We will get…

What she didn’t know, because Jack refused to burden her with the knowledge, was that the click of her needles, the thing that brought her solace, sounded exactly like the rain hitting his mates’ helmets as they lay dying in the muddy fields of Passchendaele.

 

_____________________________________________________________________________________

 

She felt Jack’s lips on her neck, nibbling, teasing. It had been so long, but…

\- Jack, please! I’m trying count!

\- C’mon Rosie, put it down.

His hand was at her breast, his lips more insistent, and she was feeling the familiar thrum between her thighs. She wanted him, yes, but she wanted the damn sweater done more. She pushed his hand away.

\- No, stop it Jack. I’m busy.

And exasperated, and lonely, and confused, and…

\- I came home early to spend time with you, only to find you gone. Then when you finally do get home, having eaten without me, you sit in the parlour and pay more attention to your damn knitting than to your own husband.

Rosie rubbed her temples. She looked at the stranger standing in front of her.

\- I told you, I’ve joined the ANZAC Fellowship of Women. They meet every Thursday afternoon. We finished late, so I went for dinner with the head of the Membership committee. I didn’t think it would matter to you. You're never home until after ten anyway.

Jack threw up his hands.

\- You’ve got the Widows and Orphans group on Monday, poetry readings on alternate Tuesday afternoons, the church auxiliary on Sunday, not to mention your regular tea with your mother and sister every Friday afternoon. Now this?

Rosie was surprised he even knew her social schedule. Jack hadn’t accompanied her to any engagements in more than two years. Frankly, unless it involved the men at City South, he showed little interest. When he was home, he was either buried in his garden, or his books, or his bottle of scotch.

\- Yes, and?

\- But when I want a little attention…

\- Don’t you dare Jack! I’m alone all day and most nights. I need to see people. I need to talk…

\- Then talk to me!

\- When? You’re hardly ever home. When you are home, the only time you want to talk to me is…

She closed her eyes, bit her tongue, trying to calm herself. Rosie always feared becoming a bitter harridan and she worried that giving voice to this complaint would mover her one step closer to that sad state. Putting her feelings to words would make the situation too real, too pitiful, and too much like her mother’s.

\- I only want to talk to you when?

Jack ground the words out, even and dry, through clenched teeth.

Rosie pulled herself to her full height and looked at the man she had sworn to cherish in the eye. Pride and frustration gave her words wings.

\- You only talk to me when you want to fuck, Jack Robinson.

She was surprised how easily the vulgarity came to her lips. She, who was always so prim and proper, who did her utmost to be the gracious lady, was reduced to such crassness. But there was iron in her tonight and she would not apologize. She would shoulder a lot for Jack, but not this. She was not going to concede on this point. She needed to find a purpose to her life. She was trying to be a good wife, but a pristine and empty house could only do so much. It wasn’t appreciated anyway. She wanted to be a good mother, but that wasn’t going to happen for her. She knew that now. All that was left for her was to be a good woman, work as hard as she could for causes she thought worthy. Rosie’s hope was that she would be able to find shelter for her heart in the associations she joined and the friendships she made now that her house was nothing more than an empty shell.

Jack stood stock still, staring at her, dumbfounded. If she had slapped him he could not be more surprised. Rosie met his gaze and remained defiant.

\- Fine. Go back to your knitting. I have work to do at the station.

\- I won’t wait up.

She sat back down, crossed her legs, and returned to her counting. Jack never returned to her bed.

_____________________________________________________________________________________

Rosie stared out the window, twisting the almost completed jumper in her hands as her father and her husband passed each other on the walk leading from driveway to house. She was terrified they would come to blows, but couldn’t blame her father if it did. His sense of hurt and betrayal at the hand of the man he considered a son ran deep.

Thankfully there were no punches thrown, just a polite nod as they passed.

She breathed a slight sigh of relief, but the respite didn’t last.

\- How could you?

The door had barely closed behind Jack before the recrimination tore itself from her throat.

\- Rosie…

\- Please explain. Before I say anything else, explain this to me. My poor father is beside himself….

\- My men needed me. They needed to see that they had support. They are dying out there and the higher-ups don’t care. Something needed to be done. The strike is the only way….

\- I’m not talking about going on strike Jack! Father was so angry that I didn’t talk you out of joining them! But I didn't know! How could you not tell me you that you were going to join them? I had no idea! Do you have any idea how that made me feel? And then to have to explain that you haven’t spoken to me about anything outside of ‘Good morning’ and ‘Good night’ in weeks? I have never been so humiliated.

\- But my men…

\- Dammit Jack Robinson, they are not soldiers, and you are not fighting a war! Not anymore!

\- Rosie, you have no idea what this job is like. It is very much like a war. I owe them….

\- And what about me Jack? What do you owe your wife?

Jack scoffed.

\- Wife? What does that even mean? How can you call yourself a wife when you are hardly ever home, never mind that you won’t…

Rosie didn't give him a chance to finish.

\- I’m home as much as you are Jack Robinson! It’s not like you’ve given me a family to look after.

And there it was. It had finally happened.

She had wounded Jack so profoundly Rosie didn’t think there was any way back from it. She could see it in his face. Jack always wanted to be a father. She knew that. They had talked excitedly about it on their wedding night, his eyes bright with hope that it wouldn’t be long for them to conceive a child. Now she had thrown that failure in his face.

Rosie always knew that her parents marriage wasn’t a happy one. It was a bitter arrangement of social conformity that left both her mother and father trapped and profoundly miserable. So far, she had deluded herself that she had avoided her mother’s sad fate. That as bad as things were between her and Jack, it was nowhere near as sad as what her parents were living.

How wrong she was.

She took a deep breath, tried to look her husband in the eye. She failed.

\- You still have your job…

\- What? George does not owe me any…

\- He didn’t do it for you Jack. He did it for me!

Rosie looked down at the twisted mass of wool that was still in her hands. The sweater was almost done. She was weaving in the ends when her father had arrived with the news. She heard Jack open the front door.

\- Go back to your knitting Rosie. I have things to do.

She stood on the landing for a long time, wondering if her husband would ever come home before returning to the settee to finish her work.

This could not go on.

  

_____________________________________________________________________________________

 

Jack took a deep breath before turning the door knob and walking through the entrance to what was nominally his home. The estrangement was getting to be too much for him to bear. The gulf between he and Rosie was his fault. He knew it. He just didn’t know how to bridge the divide.

He paused. The house felt different somehow, but even with his policeman’s instincts he couldn’t put his finger on it. Maybe it was the pot of fresh flowers on the bookcase near the door?

Walking slowly, Jack entered the kitchen. Normally, when he was home late Rosie would leave a sandwich waiting for him in the icebox. If he was lucky it would be ham and mustard pickle. Not tonight. Tonight, there were flowers on the table, a glass of wine, steak and kidney pie, and candlelight. On his chair sat a package wrapped with a bow.

Oh Rosie, his sweet, loving Rosie. She hadn’t given up on him. They hadn’t talked in two weeks, yet she was still reaching out to him. He felt as though a heavy weight had lifted from his heart.

Jack sat down and ate his dinner. He deliberately took his time to savour every bite and when he was done, he slowly unwrapped his gift. He couldn’t help but laugh when he held it up. It was the sweater! That ridiculous, ugly jumper that Rosie had been working on for the better part of four years.

How he loved her. He would make things up to her. He would explain everything. He just knew….

\- I’m sorry Jack, but I can’t do this any more.

He looked up to find his wife standing at the door to the kitchen. She was wearing her hat and coat.

\- Rosie? I don’t understand…

\- I can’t bear to live like this anymore. I don’t want to become my mother.

It was then he noticed the suitcase.

\- You’re leaving? I thought….

Jack tried and failed to keep the tremor from his voice. He looked around the house, at what he thought was Rosie attempting to create a new beginning, only to realize she was writing an epitaph for their marriage. That’s why the house felt different. His wife had already vacated it in every way except bodily.

\- I’m going to live with my sister. You can stay here or sell the house. I really don’t care anymore.

\- Rosie, I’m sorry. I know I’ve been an ass. I want you to stay. I want to try. Please stay. Please…

The tears were falling in earnest now, both his and hers. Neither one wanted to part, but what do you do when you can’t find a way forward, together?

\- I love you.

\- I love you too.

Sometimes love isn't enough.

\- Will you think about it Rosie? Please?

She nodded, picked up her suitcase, and walked out the door. Jack hadn’t heard the cab pull up to the house. He watched as one of the cabbies loaded the bags into the boot. Rosie didn’t look back.

Jack stood on the porch watched the taxi drive off until he couldn’t tell the tail lights from the stars in the sky. He gently closed the door, then collapsed against it clutching the sweater to his chest as he wept.

 

_____________________________________________________________________________________

 

**EPILOGUE**

Jack was just putting his clothes away after his latest escapade with Miss Fisher. When had he started thinking of murder investigations as escapades? He shook his head. That woman…

He still hadn’t shaken off the chill from the mine.  Until his house had warmed sufficiently he would keep his sweater on despite the fact it was ugly as hell, not to mention too small. Clearly, he’d been overindulging in Mr. Butler’s cuisine. Yet, the jumper was warm and that was all he cared about. Besides, Rosie had had toiled for so long to make it for him. The least he could do was wear it. His eyes burned with regret as they often did when he thought of his ex-wife and how he’d failed her.

A quiet rap at his door pulled him out of his reverie. Surely it wasn’t Miss Fisher hoping for a nightcap….

\- Rosie?

She stood before him, tall and proud, but the sadness that had invaded Rosie’s life the night of the Pandaris raid was still in her eyes despite their smile. It cut Jack to the core to see it.

\- Hello Jack. I hope I’m not intruding.

She glanced around as if expecting to find someone else in the house.

\- No, not at all. I just got back from a business trip.

It was then that she noticed the sweater.

\- You still have it? After all this time?

Jack looked down at himself. He felt somewhat embarrassed. Rosie knew he generally wasn’t one for nostalgia. He struggled for a way to explain himself.

\- Yes, well, we were in the mountains, and it is the warmest thing I own, so….

\- We?

\- Err, yes. Miss Fisher uh, I mean Constable Collins and I were assisting Miss Fisher…

Rosie took pity on her former husband and held up her hand.

\- Say no more. I hope your business was resolved to everyone’s satisfaction.

\- Well, not the murderer’s….

Rosie chuckled. It was good to hear her laugh. Better to be its cause for a change.

\- Would you like to come in? I could put some tea on.

\- No Jack. I can’t stay long. I came to say goodbye.

Jack’s face fell. Of course… Her father… Fletcher… He understood.

\- I’m moving to Adelaide to live with my aunt. Not too far off, but far enough. Sidney wanted me to stay, to look after his affairs. He even said he’d look after me, but I can’t. Everything is tainted. I feel filthy walking into that house knowing….

She sighed, and Jack marveled as she pulled herself up to her full height. She didn’t look fragile, she looked determined. It was then that Jack realized then that Rosie would be alright. Better than alright eventually. He needn’t to worry over her any longer. He was going to miss the woman she would become, and it saddened him that he wasn’t going to get to meet her.

\- Don’t look like that Jack. This is ‘goodbye’, not ‘fare thee well’. I’ll come back. I need to be here for the trial, and frankly, I want to see Sidney hanged. Melbourne is still my home despite everything. I have my family here, and friends, old and new. I just need to find myself again.

She smiled her tremulous smile then surprised him by placing her hand above his heart. She ran it gently over the stitches; the wool wasn’t as rough as she remembered.

\- Remember what I said about things being different the second time around?

Jack nodded, not able to find the words.

\- They aren’t so different that you can’t make the same mistake twice. Talk to her Jack. Don’t wall yourself off.

There was no question as to who his ex-wife was talking about.

\- Rosie, I…

\- I must go now Jack. Take care of yourself, and her.

She turned and opened the door, then paused to face him to him one last time from across the threshold of the house she once called home.

\- One last thing?

Rosie smiled that smile that took him back to the first time he’d met her in the apple orchard. Jack’s breath caught.

\- Burn that damn sweater!

 

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

AO3 posted this as being written in March, but I published it today. I don’t know how to change that and I want you to read it sooooo...

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading. I hope you enjoyed my first foray into fic writing (be gentle?). Special thanks go out to those who helped edit. I really appreciate it.


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